


I am

by archipelag



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 12:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19005736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelag/pseuds/archipelag
Summary: "Spring was there and so was the great return of the free folk. He should have seen it coming - their last, bitter stance turned out to be a rebirth. Kinder, this time, and better. There was no sadness. Just homecoming."Shamélessly cheery short story about Jon finding peace and family in the real North.





	I am

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker of English, it's all for fun, all for sport - just a disclaimer. This is so full of mistakes.

Jon walked through the camp. Little children would latch onto his legs as he made his way around the tents - there were so many of them nowadays. Spring was there and so was the great return of the free folk. He should have seen it coming - their last, bitter stance turned out to be a rebirth. Kinder, this time, and better. There was no sadness. Just homecoming.

At last, he sat down by the fire, resting his bones after a long day of hunting. "The South could learn a thing or two from you lot".

Tormund sent him a meaningful look. "Us lot. Alright?" He laughed in his own brutish way and pointed a finger at him. "You just said The South."

"I did?" Jon raised his brows but couldn't deny him the joy.

"Sure did!" Tormund was holding his sides from laughing. "The crow finally converted! How about that, huh!" 

Jon laughed with him, but despite Tormund's teasing there was no bitterness in his heart. He hadn't been a crow for quite a while by that point. He glanced at his gloves, his fur. He was well aware he stood out in these garments. Perhaps it's the time to shed the black - he had the luxury to ponder. The fire was warm, the fermented milk not half as bad a drink as he once would have guessed. 

Tormund must have picked up on his thoughts. He traced his finger around Jon's black coat, the coarse sleeves. Jon closed his eyes. It was so warm, by the fire. Tormund's hand sled over his shoulders and stayed there. Children were still running around, their little voices muffled down by the cracking of the wood. It was time to shed the black.

*

Jon stayed outside the tent, his face twisting in worry as a woman continued to scream on her birthing bed. Tormund asked him to join them, but Jon really didn't want to accept that offer. 

An older woman sat down next him, smiling a toothless, gentle smile. She was old, even by Westerosi standards. "Oh my, you're shaking as if it was you pushing a babe out in there! Don't you worry. Your woman sounds a better fighter than you, all will be well."

Jon sent her a look he hoped was full of venom - stopping himself out of respect for the elders. " It's not my woman in there." He explained. "My friend's cousin. Tormund Giantsbane's. Frida."

Little grandma nodded, possibly not caring at all whose child that was or wasn't. She gave him one last smile of reassurance and walked away to pester somebody else. Jon let out a breath. In the meantime, the screams in the tent all died out. He got up to meet Tormund walking out with a small bundle in his arms, his grin as wide as the sky itself.

"We'll rebuilt the tribes in no time at this rate." He said with all the tenderness in the world, the kind Jon didn't expect of him. "This one will be strong. Her father had some giant in him." He looked up to meet Jon's teary eyes. His own were a bit moist as well. "Come, have a look."

Jon peeked inside the soft furs. The babe was sound asleep, red and covered in gunk. "She's beautiful." He admitted. "Kissed by fire." He took off his glove to fondle soft curls on the newborn's head. Tormund handed him the child and Jon gasped, looking up at Tormund with a smile.

"Wait 'till you get your own." His friend laughed. "Nothing quite like it."

"You're trying to tie me down?" Jon replied with amusement.

"Aye." Tormund nodded with enthusiasm. "Better than rope! Little Jon Snows, fumbling around the village, tripping over their own feet. I'd like that."

The babe mewled in Jon's arms. He rocked it gently. Tormund's eyes were still on him, a look that was there for some time now. Jon could name it, he could do it right if he wanted to. Soon he would. 

But now - a child that was not his to hold, a smile. Open sky above him, melting snow under his feet. A hand on his thigh, fire and fresh meat. That was for now - there was still a time for soon.

*

First flower peeking its way through the frozen land marked the beginning of summer. It called for a celebration - and the free folk could celebrate alright. They bit into fresh meat, fat running down their chins. Drank until they fell with sick stomach, danced and sung. Many a child was conceived that night. 

But Jon remained glued to his spot on the tree trunk. He had a few closer friends and Tormund's family members beside him. Brigitte and Inge, Tormund's daughters, rejoiced when Jon, at last, let them braid his hair. They were a charming lot, and took after their father.

Eventually, Tormund found them and clasped his hands together. "Ah, stop it you beasts. Leave poor Snow alone, go play with the children." When the girls ran away giggling, he crouched down next to Jon. 

"You are pretty, huh." He said unexpectedly as he ran his hand through Jon's half-braided hair.

Jon's insides were filled with warmth. Tormund reeked of alcohol, but he didn't mind. He was a bit drunk himself. "I've been told." He admitted, his voice hoarse, and glanced around nervously. They didn't seem to attract any attention.

"Come on." Tormund's eyes caught the light. "Get up." He grabbed Jon's hand and lead him out of the feast to a tent they shared. Jon let himself be walked, Tormund's hand warm and heavy in his own. He clutched on it, holding onto dear life.

They made their way inside. Jon sat down legs crossed on the furs and watched as Tormund tried to get out of his coat. His friend caught his eyes and smiled warmly. "Hmm, Jon?" 

"I love you." 

Tormund threw his coat on the ground and closed the distance between them in a few fast steps. Jon raised his head to meet Tormund's lips as he leaned down. He kissed gentle, gentler than Jon would have expected of a drunken man he made wait for months on end. It would never cease to surprise him, how careful and loving Tormund could be.

They broke the kiss to catch a breath, their foreheads leaning against one another.

Jon smiled and he could tell through closed eyes that Tormund was smiling right back at him. He laid down on the furs, bringing their lips together once again.

Tormund slipped in between his legs. Jon felt a wave of cold hit his skin as he undressed, but the weight on his body was warm, was welcome.

*

Crossing the river proved to be as difficult as they feared. Chopping up a few trees for a simple raft wouldn't be a problem - they had no rope. Jon scratched his head. They probably could do with leather. No, he thought. Too precious.

"Do you know how to make boats?" One of the man asked, brows raised in quiet hope.

He didn't. There was no need for him to ever learn. Until now, that is. 

"We need that river." Tormund insisted, his eyes glistening with determination. "Ice river clans could still be up there somewhere. Who knows..." He added, voice getting softer. "Maybe even giants."

Jon wanted desperately to believe him. On some level, he did. The giants did survive the first brutal wave of The Others all those thousands of years ago. There was virtually no reason - or proof - for the contrary now. Even if it wasn't most probable. 

"How'd you cross rivers before?" Jon tapped his fingers on the make-shift table, map sprawled over it. "I mean, because you did. Didn't you?"

"The rivers were frozen." A woman Jon only vaguely knew replied. "Have been for as long as I can remember. It's only now they've melted."

Pleasant silence fell upon the table. Jon's eyes met Tormund's blue ones. They exchanged the smallest of smiles, a quirk of lips. Summer has been good to them. 

They decided to get back to to it later. Jon walked out of the tent hand-in-hand with Tormund. Ghost was laying right next to the entrance, playing with Brigitte and Inge. Or rather just shaking them off as they tried to climb him. Jon couldn't help but snort at that sight. 

"Get off the poor animal, you little fox!" Tormund picked Inge up and threw her over his shoulders. Her little feet were dangling on his chest as she kept herself up by twisting her hands in her father's hair. Brigitte held her hands up at Jon, signalling her wish to be carried around as well. Jon took the giggling girl into his arms.

She hid her face in the furs around his neck. There were very few words to explain how Jon felt during those blatant displays of affection. Of love. He allowed himself to call like that these days. That's what it was.

There also were very few words to describe how Tormund's face brightened up when Jon was with his daughters like this. He pressed a small kiss on the man's lips.

They walked through the camp, stopping for a hot bowl of soup. After they were done eating and the girls ran off to play someplace else, Tormund coughed and took a waxed piece of parchment out of his pocket. He handed it to Jon, making his eyes grow in surprise.

"Direwolf sigil." He blurted out. Tormund nodded carefully. 

Jon unrolled the parchment and skimmed through it as fast as he could, his hands trembling.

"What'd she say, your sister?" Tormund asked anxiously.

"I've been pardoned." Jon couldn't quite believe his eyes. "She wants to see me. At Winterfell."

*

His sister was waiting for them just beyond the gates, as Starks did. She looked as regal as always in her grey robes, red hair flying around in the wind. Her cheeks grew rounder - Jon noted with surprising tenderness, and only then did he realise how much he had missed her. She didn't see him yet, fussing over the collar of a little dark-haired boy standing next to her. He couldn't be more than two, as far as Jon could tell. 

But her eyes went wet as soon as they found him, and full of love. Jon practically jumped off his horse to run into her arms. She sobbed quietly as he held her, reminding him of a scene from a lifetime ago. Finally, they parted and Jon took a notice of a strangely familiar dark man standing behind them - now holding the boy he saw her with.

"Jon, meet the royal consort, lord Gawen Glover." Sansa gestured to the man, her smile small but there nonetheless. "And this little prince would be our son." She took the boy into her arms, beaming with pride. "Rickard Stark."

"After grandfather." Jon noticed, smiling down at the boy. "Just as handsome, if we're to trust his statue." He ruffled the boy's curls. "Hello, Rickard. I'm your uncle." The boy smiled shyly, hiding his face in his mother's fur. 

"It's good to see you again, Jon Snow." Gawen Glover spoke up, shaking Jon's hand. 

Jon nodded. He knew Gawen vaguely, from his time as King in the North. But, as he'd been only his lord father's son at that time, they hadn't had much opportunity to grow any closer than they'd been. He always seemed a good man though, brutish yet gentle - in a typical Northern manner. He searched for Sansa's eyes. She saw the silent question of his face and smiled reassuringly. That was enough for the moment.

Jon suddenly remembered about his own company. He turned around and gave Tormund a quick nod. Sansa's eyes went as wide as coins - she must have not realised Jon brought anybody along. 

"Let's go inside." She said, tactful as ever. "You and your friends must be tired."

*

As soon as they walked into the hall and were gone from public eye, Sansa reached out to give Tormund a hug. "Giantsbane." She laughed as he twirled her around. "I see you are in good health." Then, she looked over at Brigitte and Inge, whose little red heads were peaking out from behind Jon. "And who are those little ladies?" She said, smiling warmly.

Jon took their hands and stepped up. "My girls." He saw Tormund sighing with relief in the background. "Say hi, Brigitte. Inge."

Gawen looked confused, but Sansa only kneeled down in front of the girls and pressed quick kisses into their foreheads. They both giggled, not shying away from the attention.

"We'll have the servants escort you to your chambers." Sansa finally decided. "They'll draw each of you a nice a hot bath and serve a light meal. We can dinner together in a few hours, once you rest."

Jon squeezed her hand in gratitude and started to turn around on his feet. But Sansa was still holding onto his palm. "Let's go to my study and talk first, for a bit. I missed you, brother."

*

They sat opposite of each other, sipping on the sweet plum ale Sansa brought from the cellars. She told him they stopped importing wine from The South, as it grew too expensive. 

Jon took her hand in his.

"Your husband." He said, his voice strained, and circled his thumb on her wrist. "Is he good to you?"

"As good as I could ever hope." Sansa confessed, twisting the wedding band on her finger - the only symbol of house Glover Jon saw in the entire castle. "We married shortly after my coronation. My good lords would have started to press soon." She smiled with mischief. "I couldn't let them undermine my authority. It just so happened I took a liking to Gawen."

"And he loves you?" Jon pressed. "You love him?"

"Jon!" Sansa laughed and shook her head. "When has noble marriage ever been about love?" She finally sighed at the sight of Jon's furrowed brows. "Gawen is the best man I've ever met, but I didn't marry him for love. Love... has come later, after our son was born." She squeezed his hand tighter. "Don't worry for me Jon, for I have never been happier."

Jon let out a breath. He smiled for his sister and watched her beam at him in return.

"And you." She finally said, her eyes twinkling in the candle light. "You have a family now as well."

Jon felt his cheeks redden and he let his eyes fall down. But he knew Sansa would be curious, and at the very least she didn't seem to be judgmental of him. 

"Aye. We have different customs, up North." He replied, trying to sound unbothered. "Is this... does that make you uncomfortable?"

Sansa shook her head, laughing lightly. She brought the cup to her mouth and shook her head. "If I had my way, I'd have you here with me. But I only want you happiness, Jon. I don't care if you live with Tormund." She gestured to the weirwood tree outside the window. "Our gods don't care either. I'm happy" Her voice began to shake. "for you. I am."

Jon felt tears welling up in his eyes. "Your husband?"

"I'll talk to him. He's kind, he'll - don't worry about that, alright?"

Sansa got up from her seat to put her arms around him once again. He pressed his face into the soft material of her gown, crying with relief.

*

Jon was squished between Tormund and the girls, Ghost napping on their legs. It was a dark night, the kind during which you wouldn't see your own hand if not for the fire. It made the northern lights all the more striking. The elder's voice carried through the woods, clear and magical, making all free folk shiver and dream.

"Some say we are born of the trees." She would speak to them. "Some say we are dirt and ash. Our bodies, yes, they are but dirt." Inge pressed herself closer to Jon. He shushed her with a kiss. "But our spirits come from the above." She pointed to the magnitude of colours somewhere far in the sky. "And this is where we go. After." Her fist landed on her heart. "We do not cry for the dead. They are with us - are us. For we are one."

Jon's thoughts went back to the moments of his own death. The black didn't seem so scary anymore.

He closed his eyes and saw - brown hair, grey eyes. Red hair, blue eyes. Silver. Faces ran across his mind, fluttering on his eyelashes, their hands warm and soft on his cheeks, their breath fresh in his lungs. They whispered in his ear and he listened and he thought their thoughts.

"Jon?" Tormund's voice rang in his ears, good and hearty. "Are you still with us?"

Jon Snow warmed his hands against the fire. He had food in his belly, drink in his hand and a body to hold at night. There might be hope for me yet - he realised and flashed a grin.

"I am."

**Author's Note:**

> It's just context right at the very end but it's so important to me that Jon accepts his journey. That he forgives himself for loving Daenerys and for killing her. And that he "lets go" of all he has lost but still realises he'll carry it with him always. Baggage stops being a burden : )


End file.
